waiting for snow to fall
by bellreisa
Summary: This is a Noir fanfiction, an anime that is still relatively unexposed in the States. Near the end of episode 6, Kirika has to make a painful choice. What is going on in her mind at that time?


  
- waiting for snow to fall  
a noir fanfiction  
  
by bellreisa 06.08.01  
  
author's notes: this takes place during episode 6, in the final scene. watching  
the episode would be advised before attempting to read this story.  
  
____________________  
  
  
It was already snowing by the time they left their apartment. The sky was a  
dull, foreboding gray that all but muted the fading blues of midday, leaving  
only snowflakes drifting lazily to earth in its wake. The two women--one woman  
and one girl, actually--were both dressed in casual clothing, with some extra  
measures taken against the cold. The girl was wearing a brown jacket, the kind  
where a third pocket was sewn on the interior to provide an extra carrying  
space. She briefly ran one hand over the area, feeling the solid, reassuring  
grip of her pistol there.  
  
____________________  
  
  
"Yuri Nazarov, a former KGB agent." Mireille faced Kirika, the pale bluish glow  
of her laptop's screen casting an odd tint to their faces. "He ordered the  
execution of countless Tartars in the prisons during the days of the Old Soviet  
Republic. After that, he resigned from the KGB, gave up everything he had, and  
disappeared from sight."  
  
Kirika remained silent, as she usually did. There was nothing she could say  
about this man.  
  
"He's considered a saint by the refugees," Mireille went on. "Our client is a  
Tartar survivor. Perhaps Nazarov is trying to atone for his past now... but the  
vengeance of the wronged will not be so easily assuaged."  
  
She turned to Kirika, who was staring beyond the river directly at Nazarov's  
house. "It's a simple task," Mireille said. There was no need to explain  
further; both of them already knew what to do. So Kirika merely nodded once, as  
she continued to take in the sight of Nazarov's old house. In so many ways, it  
seemed to be just like the man himself... worn, battered, but still clinging to  
life despite all the hardships.  
  
____________________  
  
  
Kirika idly brushed away some snow from her shoulders as she and Mireille  
walked silently towards the house. It seemed the same, even though the last  
time she'd seen it was during a bright, sunny day. Aside from the thickening  
layer of snow atop the slanted roof, it was still a worn, battered shack placed  
in a barely noticeable part of the city. Even in the snow, it remained the same  
reassuring presence for the refugees that he had helped for years. But to her,  
it was supposed to be just the residence of her next target.  
  
Her partner said nothing; the soft crunching sounds her boots made in the snow  
were all that was audible. Kirika kept her eyes on the ground as she walked  
alongside Mireille, although she was constantly listening for some sign that  
they were being followed. It did not strike her as paranoid at all. This was  
just the way things were done, in her life.  
  
Nothing happened, and they finally found themselves only steps away from the  
front door. Mireille tilted her head at the entrance, glancing significantly at  
Kirika. It was time.  
  
____________________  
  
  
Only a few hours ago, she had been in that room, watching patiently as the  
doctor checked on Nazarov. The man was breathing shallowly, and his complexion  
had become very pale. It was almost pure chance that he had been around Kirika  
when he'd collapsed.  
  
No, it was not chance. It could not be. Chance would not have such a sense of  
cruelty.  
  
"He's overstrained himself," the doctor said. "I have warned him many times  
about doing so, but... well, he's always going off and taking care of others,  
with no regard as to his own physical well-being. I'm afraid the end is near,  
for him."  
  
Chance would not have allowed her the opportunity to save the man that she had  
to kill.  
  
But Kirika said nothing, accepting the news with a sort of sunken, defeated  
calm. After all, it made things easier, did it not? The doctor's word could be  
trusted. It would only be a matter of time before Nazarov left the mortal coil  
by his own means. She did not have to do anything; she did not have to  
intervene, and place her own mark of death upon a man already condemned by his  
own good will.  
  
After she had returned to Mireille that night, the woman had echoed the same  
thoughts that were running through Kirika's mind.  
  
"An easy task just became easier," she said. "If he's dying of natural causes,  
then..." It was always like Mireille to do that, Kirika thought. She seemed to  
have enough of the life that Kirika was still looking for; part of that life  
contained a certain reservation, even when it came to the matters of death that  
they dealt with constantly. She remembered Mireille telling her that her work  
always lacked a certain charm. Kirika had not replied to that, knowing that she  
would not have had anything to say.  
  
But--no. This was not the way things were done. This was not how she was  
trained.  
  
They were Noir, the assassin of legendary repute. They were those who were the  
harbingers of death. It mattered not to them who they killed, or why; they were  
the lesser pieces in a greater game that was not for them to understand. They  
were to execute their task with the utmost efficiency, with a cold, calculating  
air--an air that Mireille had either not fully managed to grasp, or had refused  
to accept. It was why Kirika could kill so well, why she felt no remorse when  
her finger moved just enough to let the bullet fly. It was why Mireille had the  
charm, and Kirika did not.  
  
The children. She could not forget the look in the children's eyes.  
  
It was earlier today, when she had the chance to take a shot. Everything was  
perfectly set up, so perfect that it may as well have been a trap. But it was  
not; Nazarov was no longer in that business, and only wanted to help others. To  
the villagers, he was now just another man--no, he was a saint. Most of them  
even knew about his past in the prisons, but that no longer mattered. The sin  
that had been committed long ago had long since been atoned with in bread, the  
life that he had given to them day after day, week after week, month after  
month, year after year. Life that was given, she knew, without asking for  
anything in return.  
  
"Are you feeling better?" the boy said.  
  
"Yeah, are you okay?" the girl chorused in. Their voices were a mixture of  
concern and hope. Kirika let herself slide down against the wall upon hearing  
those voices. What was it that she felt, now, that made her hesitate? It was  
not the warning instinct that told her to kill all witnesses--after all, there  
was no need to kill the children--but it was something else. Something strange,  
and unidentifiable.  
  
Nazarov said nothing, but Kirika could see his face in the mirror that she was  
holding in one hand. His eyes were full of sorrow.  
  
Sorrow for... what? Was he sorry for what he had done, those many years ago?  
  
"Helping others won't erase the sins you've committed," Mireille had said  
offhandedly. "It only serves to make you feel better, and nothing more."  
  
Nazarov's sin, she knew, had to be atoned with in blood.  
  
But she could not bring herself to pull the trigger, not even after she had  
lunged upwards in a movement coordinated to leave herself exposed for the least  
amount of time. She saw the children's eyes as well, now. They were bright...  
full of hope. They wanted uncle to get better, because in the end, it would all  
be all right, wouldn't it?  
  
The children turned.  
  
But nothing was there. Kirika had already bid a hasty retreat, feeling her  
heart beat wildly in her chest for the first time that she could remember.  
  
____________________  
  
  
Fate. It was fate that had led her to this point in her life. It would be  
easier to blame fate, after all, for what had happened. But Kirika was never  
the one to take the easy way out. It was not the way she had been trained.  
  
"I'll do it," she said abruptly. Mireille looked up at her in mild surprise,  
but said nothing else. "I'll do it... this job."  
  
  
____________________  
  
  
Kirika opened the door quietly, watching as some errant snowflakes blew in  
over the threshhold. The cat--Prince Mishkin, Nazarov had called him--perked up  
immediately, mewing curiously at the girl who had given her the milk and had  
saved uncle. What was she doing here? Maybe she needed help. Uncle always  
helped people.  
  
But Kirika paid the cat no heed as she stepped in, reaching into her jacket for  
the pistol. She had left the silencer off deliberately without telling  
Mireille. She did not know why, only that her hands had done it of their own  
volition, as they usually do. She looked at the photograph on the shelf above  
Nazarov's bed, and remembered the children once more. They had been so hopeful,  
so optimistic...  
  
Nazarov's eyes opened.  
  
Kirika said nothing. She returned the gaze silently, mentally hearing the words  
that he would have said had he the strength to do so.  
  
Hello, miss, Nazarov said. What are you doing here in this cold, damp house?  
Surely you have a warm fire to sit next to, back home...  
  
She raised the gun and deftly aimed it at Nazarov's head.  
  
The shock and surprise that Kirika had expected were not there. They were, in  
fact, wholly missing from the atmosphere of the room. In that moment, she  
realized that he had been waiting for this moment for the past fifty years of  
his life.  
  
I see, Nazarov said. I see. I understand, now.  
  
Silent moments passed, as the cat continued to watch the unfolding scene with a  
quiet sense of feline bemusement. Kirika remained stock still, waiting for  
something that she somehow instinctively knew would happen.  
  
She suddenly understood why she had not attached the silencer.  
  
Somehow--some way, if they were discovered, then she would be able to atone for  
her own sins. So many people had died at her hands, and yet she never felt a  
single speck of regret. Even now, with this person who pretended to have no  
real name, who was hailed as a saint by all those around him, there was no  
sadness in her heart.  
  
But it was too perfect, she knew. Everything had been set up too perfectly.  
They would never suspect the killer to be the one who had saved him that same  
day.  
  
Nazarov spoke again--or, rather, Kirika heard, in her mind's ear, an echo of  
his hollow, defeated voice. Thank you for not hurting the children, he said. It  
was a very kind thing of you to do, miss... as was taking care of Prince  
Mishkin.  
  
Kirika's eyes were hard. She could not afford to let herself relent once more.  
Not this time... not anymore.  
  
I am tired, Nazarov said, barely audible now. He closed his eyes.  
  
I am tired.  
  
And suddenly, that same unfamiliar feeling welled up in Kirika's chest. She  
felt the corners of her eyes sting briefly, as if they had been hit with tear  
gas, and her grip on the pistol wavered.  
  
But it was only for a moment, as she remembered what Mireille had said. In her  
mind's eye, she looked at the photo of Nazarov once more, only a little boy,  
looking as young and happy as the children he had comforted today. She closed  
her eyes, letting the images wash over her mind slowly. Slowly, the unfamiliar  
feeling faded from her heart.  
  
You are a good girl, Nazarov whispered.  
  
No, she replied. I am Noir.  
  
A single loud shot rang out in the stillness of the wintry night.  
  
  
____________________ 


End file.
